The Yarn Collection
by CrackinAndProudOfIt
Summary: My responses to Virodeil's "100 Prompts." These drabbles consist of a wide variety of genres and characters, though I've been told they're primarily angsty. ;  Finally COMPLETE! Thank you, my encouragers!
1. Fire

1. Fire

Red. Ambarussa awoke to red. It took him a moment to realize that the ship's interior should not be lit, not at this ungodly hour. What was happening?

The light crept closer. Flames. Why was the ship burning? He had to get out! But the flames blocked the only exit from his below-deck quarters.

They were now in the room with him. Nearer, nearer to his still-prone body they drew. Maybe he was in a nightmare...

_But no nightmare could burn like this._


	2. Pet

2. Pet

"Huan! Huan, come here, boy!" he called desperately after the dog. Young Tyelkormo's face was the picture of dismay as he watched his new hound bound off into the forest ahead of him. He spurred his horse forward, following the dog in hot pursuit. The beast seemed to be tireless, running on and on and on deeper and deeper into the wood.

At last, upon reaching a clearing, Huan seemed to stop and rest for a moment. Tyelkormo leapt from his mount and cast his arms about the hound, holding him down to buckle on his leash whilst sighing at how long the trip home would now take. Huan whined pitifully and rolled over subserviently, simply begging to be released. "All right, all right," Tyelkormo swiftly yielded, moving his hand to Huan's collar. He paused, said, "But _only_ if you lead us back home."

The dog was off in a flash, plunging through the forest the way they had come.

Upon their arrival home, Tyelkormo's father remarked after hearing the tale, "That dog will be the doom of you, Turco!"


	3. Transportation

3. Transportation

Majestic, that was the word. Thorondor was _majestic_, what with his piercing jet-black eyes, shining beak, razor-sharp talons and gleaming golden-feathered wings, thirty fathoms wide.

Those wings had borne so many, had come swooping in to save the day countless times. Maedhros Thorondor had spared, coming just in time to stop the arrow of Fingon; those twain he had carried to Mithrim. The lifeless hröa of Fingolfin he had brought to the grief of Turgon. A wounded Beren and weeping Lúthien he had flown to the edge of Doriath. The body of Glorfindel he had recovered from the abyss.

But what thanks had he gotten, that spirit of the air? None, save from the one from whom it mattered: Lord Manwë. King of Eagles though he was, he was still only a vassal.


	4. Plants

4. Plants

"_See! There is blood on the hilltop!"_

The words were memorable, piercing and stinging, like flying arrows whistling through the air. _My arrows_, though Andróg as he lay dying on the crown of Amon Rûdh, the crimson _seregon_ soaking up the blood of him and his comrades.

Why had he not heeded the curse of the Dwarf? The treacherous wretch had doomed him to meet his death at the point of a dart if ever he picked up a bow again, and now, as his life slipped away from him, the Dwarf was avenged.

Andróg's fingers clutched once more at the flowers around him ere he breathed his last.

"_See! There is blood on the hilltop!"_

_ "Not yet."_


	5. Threats

5. Threats

The Lords Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras.

To Elu Thingol of Doriath, greeting.

It has come to our esteemed attention that, by spurious means and without our consent, you have come to possess a Silmaril. This jewel, as you are _well_ aware, was hand crafted by our father in the days of Valinor's bliss with two others of its kind, which remain in the grasp of Morgoth Bauglir the abominable, who thieving took them from the vault of our king and grandfather.

Now, you have obtained one of these sacrosanct jewels, and as rightful heirs of it, we demand it surrendered to us. As you are doubtless also aware, this jewel is bound to us by an irrevocable oath pitting for eternity our House against all who dare withhold it from us. This means, quite simply, that any who do not surrender to us this gem, our heirloom, are subject to death, and their realms to demolition, at our hands.

_Scanning once more the list of names, Thingol tore the parchment in half._


	6. Water

6. Water

Eärendil stood in the shallow beach's damp sand, right on that fine line between the ending of land and beginning of Sea. Raising his hand to shade his eyes from the sunset's glare, he gazed out over the ocean. For the first time the sheer enormity of the task which he was about to embark upon struck him, like a plumed wave breaking upon a rocky shore.

As far as he could see, there was nothing, only water, from here until that place where Anor was just beginning to sink below the horizon. How long would his journey take? And if ever he reached his destination, would aught come of it?

As quickly as the trepidation began to build, however, it was soon swept away by one thought: _I am going upon the Sea. It's only water, anyway. _


	7. Wind

7. Wind

Swirling, tearing, rending, whipping is the wind around me. I know I must seek shelter from this horrible storm. But where?

The last of my company I am, a coward, a deserter; I had fled the gruesome battle I found myself in the thick of at the first chance I had. And now I will pay.

Instead of perishing valiantly in the battle beside my comrades, I will die out here in this gale, in a solitude of my own making.

Out of the West has the storm come; Manwë, I suppose, is taking his vengeance on Morgoth for the atrocities he committed against us on the plain of Anfauglith.

Now, my hair and cloak whirl out around me, smacking against my body with each fresh gust. Where can I take refuge? A great boulder meets my eyes, and I run to it, cowering beneath it like the craven Noldo I am.


	8. Hobby

8. Hobby

"Amil?"

Nerdanel turned from the plating of dinner to face her eldest.

"He said to hold a plate for him so he can eat alone later," said Maitimo.

"Of course he did," Nerdanel answered with a sigh. "Why would he actually consider eating with his _family_ when he could be making his jewels?" Even her not-quite-adolescent son could hear the caustic bitterness in her voice.

But she was beyond caring. She was sick and tired of family life taking a position behind Fëanáro's work. They were wealthy; he was royalty! He did not have to labour day and night for the food on the table, but he still chose to pursue his "profession." But it was so much more than that, more than a job, more even than a hobby or passion: an idol.

And Nerdanel could only take it for so long.


	9. Tradition

9. Tradition

Artaher sat twiddling his thumbs during what had always been his least favourite part of the celebration: Lord Manwë's speech. Every seven years the journey to Taniquetil was made, every seven years the same Valarin food was served, every seven years Manwë stood in the same robes, in the same spot, and droned on an on and on about the same thing. Artaher was only glad it wasn't Double Mirth, which also signified Double Longevity!

For this reason and others, Artaher should have been able to endure it better this year; it was his sixth time, after all. But this year, one thing was different: Findaráto, who used to be so much fun to crack jokes with and who always knew exactly how many grueling hours were left in the oration, was now, infernally and boringly, "mature."

There he sat with his Vanyarin lover, hanging onto every word from the Vala's mouth. _So much can change in seven years,_ mused Artaher, _but I doubt _this _tradition ever will!_

He glanced again at the clock.


	10. Earth

10. Earth

Mîm kept digging. There had to be roots here somewhere, there had to be! How long had he and his sons been searching? Two hours? Three? Four? There were usually plenty in this area, so the scarcity was not only an aggravation but slightly alarming.

The sun was at last starting to wester and the dirt beneth his fingernails beginning to bother him. Even he, the best of Petty Dwarves, was starting to grow tired of kneeling in the dirt and delving into the flesh of Arda.

"Ibun! Khîm!" he called to his sons as he slung his empty sack over his shoulder, "Let us go home. We will search in a different place tomorrow."


	11. Breaking the Habit

11. Breaking the Habit

Turgon rolled over, expecting, like he had every morning since they were first wed, to find Elenwë beside him and awaken her with a kiss and an "I love you." Panic shot through him upon finding her place empty.

Every morning began like that, with the shock of finding his beloved wife gone, with the memory of why. He should have been used to it by now. After a century without her, that habit ought to have been broken long ago. But it was so difficult to let go of her; to him, letting go meant forgetting. If breaking the habit mean losing even the memory of her, he would rather feel the pain.


	12. Betrayal

12. Betrayal

Singing. The sound of a multitude of fair elvish voices crescendoed to the highest firmament, its triumphant notes piercing the chill grey silence of that tranquil hour ere the sun's rising. The beautiful lyrics spoke of the coming of summer, trees in flower, bright days, and the flight of darkness in the Quenya he had never quite been able to master, swift learner though he was.

He did not sing today. _For song is reserved for times of joy,_ thought he, and what joy could he feel when the only sight that he beheld was that of his beloved holding her small child's undoubtedly filthy hands, wrapped in the arms of her mortal husband? Maeglin's steely gaze hardened as he fixed his stormy eyes on the pleasant little family.

The song reached its highest note and with the force of it he thought the entire city would crumble down, but in that moment, the music ceased.

Into the view of the rejoicing Gondolindrim came a line of red fire. A young elf ran up to the king. "My lord," he said breathlessly, "there are Orcs and Balrogs and Urulóki and other foul demons which I have never seen before, and they have passed the Seven Gates, and they are burning as they come!"

A small, grim smile slowly spread across Maeglin's face: this was his hour.

Around him, women and children were shrieking and wailing; many were fleeing already at the word of their husbands. The King bellowed orders to his men, instructing them to grab their weapons and report to the citadel once their families had been safely bestowed and themselves fitfully armoured.

At first, Maeglin turned toward the palace in an attempt at blending into the throng of elves making for it, but this proved useless, and he went in the direction of the only thing he still cared about: her.

He already had his sword, having intelligence concerning the attack from Morgoth himself. The previous evening he had followed the thorough instructions given him for preparing the city as best he could for the coming assault. He had done all he needed. He had only to claim his reward.


	13. Rebellion

13. Rebellion

Are you happy now, Fëanáro? You have what you wanted: the people. You even have me, little though I like it. We have all done it, done what you would have us do, rebel against the Valar, the Valar who loved us and protected us, the Valar whose wrath we have now incurred.

You were always the charmer, my half-brother, were you not? Now you have charmed nearly all the Noldor, regardless of their feelings toward you, just like you charmed Atar.

But what little spell you had over me is now breaking.

The Valar have spoken, and I now come to grips with the enormity of what we have done. I will follow you no longer. As I turn my back on the host of the Noldor, on my own children even, I realize that I have now rebelled against rebellion. What does that make me?


	14. What Happens Now?

14. What Happens Now?

It is morning now, or so I deem it as I emerge from my tent, though the sky above remains black and speckled by a multitude of stars. As I look about the vast camp, a part of me refuses to believe that we have actually arrived. But we have.

We are in the Hither Lands now, for better or for worse. The piles of no-grey ashes, all that remain of the fair Telerin vessels, attest to it, as foes the firm ground beneath my feet and the earthy scent in the chill coastal air.

We have arrived. My father is ecstatic, but as for myself, I am unsure. Where do we go? What do we do? Find Morgoth and the Silmarils, of course, but we must start entirely new lives along the way; it cannot be as easy as it sounds.

We are here. What happens now?


	15. Retaliation

15. Retaliation

Waiting. We just stood there, waiting. Waiting for what? I could see the anxious expression on King Fingon's face; a chill ran down my spine: he thought we were betrayed.

I shielded my eyes from the hot sun with my hand and strained to see if I could catch a glimpse of the banners of Lord Maedhros across the hazy sands of Anfauglith. Nothing could be seen for miles upon flat miles to the east, but the north was a different story.

A great army of Orcs drew dangerously near to our host. Why had we not seen their approach? My men shuffled awkwardly beside me. We had to attack soon or they would take us first. Several of the king's counselors gathered around him; they were obviously debating the situation at hand. They conferred for only a few minutes before the captains returned to their positions. We made no move against the army before us.

The Orcs stopped marching. I heard the hoarse bray of a crude trumpet and saw a small company of them swiftly approaching us. They stopped before the king. They might have said something about terms of parley or peaceful surrender, but I heard none of it. My whole consciousness was focused on one whom they had brought chained behind them.

Though he was blinded, scarred, filthy, bent, and battered, I recognized my brother. We had presumed him dead after the Bragollach, consumed by the flames that destroyed fair Ard-galen. I had to do something; I could not just let him suffer!

"Ah," said Morgoth's captain, turning toward me. I suppose he noted the expression on my face. "I see you have noticed this filth." He kicked Gelmir forcefully, and my brother crumpled to the ground. The captain laughed, shouting, _"We have many such more at home, but you must make haste if you would find them; for we shall deal with them all when we return even so!"_

He drew a crude sword, and to my horror and grief, hewed my brother to death. My heart kindled to wrath in that instant. I would make Morgoth pay for this; the murder of my brother would cost him dearly! I _would_ avenge my older brother!

I shouted a command to my men to ride after the messengers. I heard the king's voice telling me to stop, ordering me, but I heeded him not. I led my troops over the plain, and we soon overtook the company. I took the personal pleasure of killing their captain, and we rode all the way to the gates of Angband, slaying the guards and entering its fastness. This, I thought, _is how a Noldo retaliates._


	16. Count Down

16. Count Down

Twenty: a score of ferocious werewolves with iron jaws, razor-sharp teeth, and soul-less black eyes, Sauron's throne room guard. Upon hearing the song of Melian's child outside the dark walls of his fortress on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, he had not hesitated to send them forth to bring her in. Now they were disappearing.

Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen… One by one, they never returned, all slain by some unknown force without.

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve… Suspicions began to rise in the cunning mind of Sauron. How could so many of his powerful beasts be killed, without any audible or visible evidence to mark the way they had died?

Eleven, ten, nine… The count progressed until there was but one left.

As Draugluin returned, chest rent open and gushing blood, his last gasping words, "Huan is there," told Sauron what needed to be done.

_The countdown is over,_ he thought as he changed his hue to that of a monstrous werewolf, _The show is about to start._


	17. Celebration

17. Celebration

"Nolofinwe," says his brother.

"Fëanáro," he replies.

Here they stand, in the moment of supposed truth before Manwë, the entire populace of Tirion and Valmar looking on. This is supposed to be a celebration, a harvest feast, not the stressful affair of family tensions it had become thanks to Fëanáro's presence.

_But maybe there is something that can be done,_ he thinks hopefully, _It does not always have to be this way. If I can make an attempt, maybe he can as well._

Nolofinwë extends his hand to Fëanáro, tentatively, humbly, warily. And Fëanáro takes it; a firm handshake seals their apparent reconciliation even as Nolofinwë swears words of fated fealty.

Then everything goes black.


	18. Count Up

18. Count Up

Celegorm had never thought he would have to teach any of his brothers to count, much less his elder brothers, even less than that once they were all _grown adults_!

"The numbers never lie," he said, exasperatedly reiterating the point he had been attempting to make for hours, "There are _three _Silmarils. We have _none_. Doriath has _one_. Do we truly need other prompting to attack? We have tried, not once but _twice_, to do this peaceably, to make them freely surrender it; not once but _twice_ have they refused our demands. You have one oath that should obligate you, I have two. We are one step away from fulfilling at least a part of them. Russandol, Makalaurë, I beg you to reconsider."

With a sigh, Maedhros looked up and met the eyes of his speaking brother. "I suppose we cannot argue with the numbers, can we?" he said, a wry smile creeping across his features, "When shall we make the battle?"


	19. A Lion and A Mouse

19. A Lion and A Mouse

Tuor was done. He was finished, done, all through, with being a slave. Day by day he had endured his thralldom to Lorgan, ever plotting the events of that glorious day when at last he would escape. It was supposed to be a long and complicated process involving great build-up; he had been oh-so-close to achieving it. But now all of that was going to the wayside.

This last beating had been the final straw; the smarting welts coating his already-scarred back attested to that. Now he was essentially throwing caution to the wind by telling his inebriated master a small lie and literally running off into the distance.

He ran now, the wind flowing through his golden hair and cooling him just enough on the warm summer night. He probably had until morning before he was missed, hoping the lie held. _I am truly the mouse_, he thought, _fleeing the dull cat's fatal claws_.

**A/N: I'm sorry if that was a bit of a stretch to make fit the prompt. I just couldn't get inspired, and this was the product. :)**


	20. Gems and Jewels

20. Gems and Jewels

The sky. Of course: the sky, the one place that it would at last be eternally out of Maitimo's reach. He knew his house was cursed, he knew the Valar despised him-but...the sky?

Anywhere else, there was hope. Seas could be removed, mountains shaken, but how could the very firmament be brought down for the salvation of his soul? The high heavens were forever the one place from which the Jewel could never be retrieved. If it could not be retrieved, this was the end; the Everlasting Darkness was the fate of him and his brother if all Three were not brought into their possession.

_"The Star of High Hope?"_ Hardly.


	21. Stealing

**A/N: This chapter is a bit on the deranged-and-psychotic-angst side, and what is going on may not be evident in the story. The narrator is Eöl, and these are his last thoughts as he regards the sunrise in Gondolin.**

21. Stealing

You usurper, thief of peace, of land, of life. With you came them, your accomplices, murderers and raiders.

Before, it was dark: eternally dark, beautifully dark, purely dark. The star-pricked sky was enough to content us, but still you arose, the symbol of our decline, with war and turmoil in your train; yet with love and beauty unforeseen-and now regrettable.

You brought her to me, and for that I loathe you. You, the bringer of my woes, if not for you we would both still live. The child would not, but what does that matter? There he stands, silent, in your terrible rays that bathe him as they do me for the final time.

I curse him, you, all of them. Now I suppose you are revenged against the one who has ever despised you.

And I fall.


	22. A Race

22. A Race

Saeros ran. He knew he should not be, but he was terrified. That mortal swine had not seen it fit merely to beat and disarm him, but to humiliate him as well. The ADAN was a lunatic; there was no telling what he would do should Saeros fall behind in this twisted race through Region.

Saeros' entire stream of consciousness consisted of the single phrase, "Get to Menegroth!" Once Thingol saw what his fosterson was doing, he would be far from pleased with his beloved Túrin.

Menegroth: it was in sight now, and Túrin was not far behind him. Completely focused on the palace's walls, the sheer drop into Esgalduin's rocky bed escaped Saeros' notice.


	23. Run and Run and Run

23. Run and Run and Run

"Life isn't a sprint, Nelyo. It's a marathon."

How many times had his father told him that throughout his youth? How many times had he failed to grasp the maxim's true meaning? The meaning he was only now discovering, the message he had finally found in Fëanáro's cryptic words, was this: Keep running, no matter what, keep running.

But that had now become his daily struggle. The jewels were lost to him, one in the heavens, the others held fast by Morgoth. He found less and less reason to get up in the morning day by day, knowing that the torment of soul the new day held was no better than the anguish of night. This was no way to live.

He could run and run and run, run until the end of the world, but if one is going nowhere, what is the use of running?


	24. Filling In the Gaps

24. Filling in the Gaps

"Túrin? Túrin, come back here!" Mablung found himself calling after the distressed _adan_. Where was Túrin going? Why had he ran from Mablung and his fellow Doriathrim upon hearing a description of Niënor? Had the Man gone mad in the wilderness?

This was all-too-strange, strange even for a child of Húrin! Mablung needed more information. Sending one of his troops after Túrin and telling the others to continue to scout the area for signs of Niënor, he set off alone in an attempt to find the Men supposedly dwelling in this area.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Hours later, sitting finally with the Men he had searched for, Mablung wept openly by the end of the Halethrim's tale. He wept for those he had loved, for the tragedy that had clearly befallen. The story made perfect sense now that the accounts of Sindar and Edain had been combined: too much sense, in fact. There _was_ a curse, it seemed, and now Mablung, too, was a victim of it.


	25. Documentation

**A/N: This chapter is a continuation of "Filling in the Gaps."**

25. Documentation

Wiping the tears from his eyes and rising slowly to his feet, Mablung quietly asked to be shown to the location of today's tragedy. He knew his duty.

Gathering his men and after receiving directions to Cabed-en-Aras, or Cabed Naeramarth, as it was already being referred to as, the company of Sindar set out for the terrible locale.

Upon reaching Cabed Naeramarth, the elves wasted no time. After reverently burying the body of Túrin, setting a large stone on his grave, and burning the carcass of the Worm, they had almost completed their task.

Glancing at the tomb of Túrin, Mablung realized that an unmarked grave hardly befit the larger-than-life _adan_ or his sister. Their final resting place should at least be documented in some way, as a tribute to all the good they _had_ accomplished in life, despite the curse. Taking up the proper tool, he etched a simple epitaph into the rock.


	26. Metal

26. Metal

Taking the dull iron sword tentatively out of the hands of the_ adan_ to whom it now belonged, the smith felt a chill run down his spine. He cringed at the touch of its cold blade when he thought of the last blood it had spilled.

By now everyone knew the story: the tragic killing of Beleg Cúthalion at the hands of him that he was trying to save. And now the smith had the same accursed sword in his keeping.

He reforged it black, for the grief of its bearer.


	27. Connecting the Dots

27. Connecting the Dots

Sauron could not help but smile as he inclined a figuratively deaf ear to the screams and pleas for mercy, the accusations and curses, of Barahir's betrayer.

"You told me I was to be released!" he was now shouting raspily between each slice of the knife flaying him alive. "You told me!"

The Lord of Werewolves chuckled. "I told you you were to be released to Eilinel. You draw closer to her as we speak."

"You faithless-" The _adan's_ statement ended in an inane shriek caused by yet another stroke of the blade.

Sauron laughed again. "It is hardly _my_ fault that you were uninformed as to her whereabouts! I am merely keeping my word to you. I am glad I am thus enabled to assist you in realizing her location."

The Maia waited for a response, but there was none; Gorlim lay dead in a pool of blood.


	28. Waybread

28. Waybread

"Have you got some with you, _Atar_?"

"Some _what_, Tyelperinquar?" came Curufinwë Atarinkë's agitated response.

"_Coimas_, _Atar_," the child answered. "I'm hungry."

His father cursed silently. How could he have forgotten waybread? He had brought with him his whole toolbox, and more gems and crafts than he cared to admit, but he had apparently neglected to remember the basic necessity of travel.

"No, Tyelpo, I don't have any," he said. "Go ask Uncle Makalaurë; I imagine he has plenty."

"_Amillë_ wouldn't be happy with you. She always says to bring some with you whenever you're going somewhere," said Tyelperinquar.

The mention of his wife was like rubbing salt in an open wound to Curufinwë. The pain of her faithlessness stung, especially on a night like tonight, when everything he knew was falling apart.

"_Amillë_ wouldn't be happy with me even if I'd brought a whole basketful," he replied thoughtfully.

**A/N: **

**-_coimas_: Quenya for_ lembas_, meaning "lifebread"**

**-Tyelperinquar: Celebrimbor**

**-On "faithlessness:" By this word I mean her refusal to go with him to the Hither Lands. I always imagine their relationship was strained beforehand, though, much like that of Fëanor and Nerdanel.**


	29. Wayward

29. Wayward

Gazing down at the wide world far, far below him, Tilion realized how much he really loved the view from here. The unlimited perspective traveling the heavens provided was a refreshing change from the dull life revolving around watering a tree he had known before. This new existence was pure excitement: He could see everything, do anything, be free! He cared little that he was called wayward and uncertain, as long as his celestial adventures continued to thrill him. This was, indeed, the life for him!


	30. Crossing the Line

30. Crossing the Line

Maglor had never thought about it before, always just viewed it as another battle, unfortunate but necessary, until he looked down at his hands and saw them dripping with warm, red blood. The lifeless _hröa_ of the Sinda he had just slain stared up at him with glazed eyes that seemed to bore holes into his very _fëa_. They were the eyes of a child.

And he had not even noticed! In battle, he had learned to turn himself into a machine, an animal; if he did not think about what he was doing, it became a thousand times easier. But maybe he needed to start thinking again. There was a line, a thick and obvious line, between military killing and the slaying of innocents, a line he had now crossed. Makalaurë Canafinwë the singer would have never committed such an atrocity. The Oath had changed him.

Who was he now, and, more importantly, what was he becoming?


	31. Leaves

31. Leaves

Aredhel was completely bewildered. When had all of the trees started looking the same? When had the gentle crunch of a stray dead leaf beneath her horse's hooves turned into a constant crushing of the leaves of hundreds of autumns past completely covering their path?

And it was dark in here, so very dark. She felt that she now drew into regions whose thickly-clad branches had never allowed even a sliver of sunlight to penetrate their leafy canopy and touch the ground below.

Suddenly, she realized that she might be the only child of Ilúvatar to ever stand in this spot, this deep in this wild wood; the thought sent a chill down her spine. Or had she been here before? The leaves were all the same, it seemed.


	32. Painting

32. Painting

Findaráto dipped his brush into the deep blue once more, deftly adding strokes of colour to the painted ocean's turbulent surface. He reached down to replenish the amount of paint on his brush when suddenly the bedroom door burst open.

In ran his brother Aikanáro, looking behind him and panting, barrelling right toward Findaráto's wet painting, unaware of his position.

"Aikanáro, watch-" shouted Findaráto, but it was too late.

He crashed straight into the easel, the picture falling wet-side-down on top of him and covering him in cobalt paint. Findaráto stood dumbfounded. A voice came from the doorway, and Findaráto and Aikanáro looked up to see their brother Angaráto, saying, "You are _so_ going to get it."

He and Artaher, who stood beside him, turned and dashed off down the hall. Findaráto turned his gaze back to the rather blue younger boy, who raised his hands in surrender, grinning sheepishly and saying, "Sorry?"


	33. Dreams and Fantasy

33. Dreams and Fantasy

Ereinion had played out the scene in his mind thousands of times. He would first hear the sound of hooves, drumming the ground with a sense of urgency and coming nearer and nearer until at last they stopped below his seaside bedroom's window. Peeping out of the curtains and seeing the horse's rider, he would run as fast as his feet could carry him down the marble stairs of Círdan's home, out the door, and into the arms of the visitor: his father. His father would kiss him on the brow, tell him how much he had been missed, and then invite him back to Hithlum to take his place as crown prince of the Noldor.

Ereinion let the vivid fantasy's last scene dissolve before his mind's eye one final time as the tears began to fall. His father would never call him back home; Fingon, high king of the Noldor, was dead.


	34. A Book

34. A Book

The courtyard was cool and quiet; the trees provided ample shade from the bright autumn sun. Galadriel seated herself on the small stone bench, book in hand. The bit of sunlight filtering through the yellow leaves reflected off of her golden hair, sending out brilliant rays as she sat unawares.

Many times he had watched her read here, enthralled by her beauty and dumbfounded by her grace. But today was the day he was finally going to join her, to make an attempt at hinting the way he felt toward her. As nimble as he was silent, he climbed down from the sturdy beech he had been observing her from.

Walking up behind her, without her even noticing his presence, he asked, "What are you reading?"

Her head shot up from the page, startled, but she smiled upon seeing him.

"A love story, Celeborn," she responded, "Would you care to sit with me?"


	35. Let's Play A Game

35. Let's Play A Game

"Hurry, Elwing! Pack your things, dear," I tell my young daughter after rousing her from sleep on account of the coming attack. We have only just received word of it, and I am almost as terrified for myself as for my young daughter.

"But why, _Amil_? Where are we going?" Elwing asks groggily.

For a moment my mind freezes. What am I going to tell her? I cannot very well say that the kingdom is under invasion and she is being taken to safety with the Silmaril while her father and myself remain here at Menegroth; that would frighten her to death! Suddenly I think back to a pretend game she played with her brothers last week: In it the valiant and beautiful princess was always being awakened in the middle of the night to be called upon to fight dragons or save villages.

I lower my voice to what I hope is a conspiratorial whisper and say, "It's all part of the game, dearest. You have been entrusted with the task of guarding the Silmaril, my lady. The whole realm is dependent upon whether or not you get out of bed!"

She leaps out of bed at these words, throws her cloak about her small shoulders, looks up at me earnestly, and with all sincerity in her voice says, "What must I do?"

Amazing, the art of make-believe.


	36. Sunrise

36. Sunrise

_We only have to make it until dawn. We only have to make it until dawn._

I repeated the mantra again and again in my mind, knowing it to be true but failing to see how we would ever be able to hold out until the Orcs were weakened by the sun's coming. In the dead of winter, when one has been besieged for ten nights in a row, the darkness seems to last forever as the inevitable battle wears on.

The battle _did_ wear on, though, slowly but surely. Once, the Orcs nearly took the lower level of the citadel; once we vanquished their attempt. Hours later, I found myself defending the very gates, for the _glamhoth_ had been driven back, though we were hard put to it. Even now, they appeared to be gaining ground. Unintentionally, I glanced up at the sky; I smiled. It was grey, and to the east the horizon blushed pink with the hope of the coming dawn.


	37. Clouds

37. Clouds

"What do you see, Daeron?" she asks, pointing up at the patch of blue summer sky visible to the twosome from the small clearing in the forest where the pair lie side by side on their backs, gazing up at the clouds. Insects chirp around them, and a few birds can be heard singing. The bright green grass is soft beneath them, and this is lazy summer afternoon is passing by like many others of its sort: peacefully and unhurriedly.

"I see," says Daeron, "a nightingale perched on a branch." He indicates an oddly-shaped cloud, and she laughs.

"Ai, Daeron, you have too much imagination! It is clearly a harp."

He loves to see her laugh; as the afternoon slowly passes, he wishes it would never end.


	38. Sunset

38. Sunset

The shadows wrap themselves around the large boulder in the day's dying light. Two huddled figures sit beneath the characters engraved upon it: the epitaph of their children. Their stringy grey hair clings lank about their bony shoulders and a multitude of wrinkles

furrow their thinly spread skin; they have aged before their time. They weep.

The sun's last rays fall upon their faces. A great intake and release of breath comes up from the woman. She is completely still: gone.

As darkness falls, the man bows his head. Never had a sunset so broken him.


	39. Ship

39. Ship

Voronwë was jolted awake by a brilliant flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder that shook the very timbers of the ship. He heard rain pounding the deck above him, and throwing on his cloak, dashed up the ladder, only to find himself completely exposed to the wrath of a violent storm. The ship was being tossed about like an autumn leaf in a gale and threatened to capsize.

Suddenly, another bolt of lightning split the sky above the vessel. A great cracking sound was heard: the mast had been struck and was falling. He shouted a command to his crew to clear the area in its wake and grab the ship's railing. It crashed to the deck, splitting the ship literally in half and allowing seawater to surge quickly into the ship. The ship was sinking.

At once, a great wave rose beneath the ship, bearing the two halves up as they continued to fall apart. Voronwë clung desperately to a broken piece of railing; the wave fell, and he looked about him.

The ship was gone.


	40. Down the River

40. Down the River

A moonlit walk is the sort of thing two lovers take when they wish to be alone, with no distractions, nothing to think about besides each other, their love, and their future. Such was the intent of the Sindarin twain walking alongside Sirion in Region. Their hands were clasped tightly together, and they strolled at a leisurely pace, laughing and talking. They were laughing and talking, that is, until a look of horror froze on the _nís_'s face. She fell immediately silent and at her lover's questioning expression pointed to something in the river, floating steadily downstream toward them.

Though it was still yards away, their keen eyes allowed them to see that it was a corpse. Its grey eyes were open, and its long, golden hair streamed out around it. The garment it wore might once have been white, before being sullied by the river. As Sirion carried the body to the place the lovers stood frozen in their tracks, the pair wondered who this woman was and why she had been laid to rest in the river's mighty flow.

Little did Nellas realize how close to her heart the case before her was or should have been.


	41. Fell Creatures

41. Fell Creatures

Ecthelion was never the sort to know fear. Even when the reports began slowly to make their way to his ears, proclaiming the coming of foul and deadly beasts: Balrogs, Orcs, Urulóki, and other worse, unknown creatures, he had not quailed. On the contrary, he had laughed.

Soon, it was not mere reports but the _úmanyar_ themselves that found their way to the lordship of Ecthelion. To put it frankly, none returned. For that reason did Gothmog come: to breach the resistance in the square of the King. He soon wished he had not, though, for Ecthelion died laughing.


	42. Anatomy

42. Anatomy

Elrond was shocked when he noticed it, or, more correctly, when he connected it. How long had it been that way, and more importantly, _why_? He had been growing up not even thinking about it, never stopping to realize the full meaning of that which he had daily seen. He supposed it was just such a part of his uncle, or not a part, in this case, that its absence had never fully registered with him before. But now that it had, he was immensely curious.

He posed the question at once, not bothering to note the amount of alcohol his uncle had consumed or to consider the possible consequences that could ensue for that reason.

"Uncle Maedhros?" he inquired, "Why don't you have a hand?"


	43. Tears

43. Tears

He lets it go; the sparkling orb of gleaming facets is falling, falling. It hurdles out over the Sea and lands so far away that inaudible is the splash marking its immersion in the waters that will separate him from it forever. Forever. He swore to _pursue_ it forever, not to let it go!

He stands knee-deep in the frigid seawater. A chill gust of coastal wind ruffles his loose jet-black hair, spraying saltwater on his face. It mingles with the tears now streaming down, creating a silent requiem for that which he fought for: for that which he has now surrendered. The wind keeps blowing, the tears keep coming; both leave their salty residue on his scarred flesh so that to differentiate is nigh impossible.


	44. Wounds

**A/N: I should let you know that this Yarn is told in the perspective of an OFC I've had in the back of my mind for quite some time. This is just a little glance into her character, but I'd love to hear your opinion on her.**

44. Wounds

I had never seen him like this. Fëanáro had always been, in my mind, sacrosanct, too far above everyone else to be rendered helpless, as high and untouchable as his beloved Jewels, unable to be wounded in spirit or body. Yet here he lay before us on a crude bier, burned and bleeding on all visible skin, barely recognizable as he gasped for each breath.

It was not simply sobering; it was frightening. To think that the invincible Fëanáro, our fearless and determined leader, could be reduced to this battered form on the bier: dying, was terrifying. He had barely spent any time in this new land he had led us to before he was forced to leave it; when would my own time come? That of my husband, of his brothers?

I had seen death before, at Alqualondë, at Formenos, but never before had it fully registered in my mind how vulnerable we all were, especially in these unfamiliar lands. Fëanáro's wounds were killing him;_ who was next?_


	45. Valinor

45. Valinor

Elwë had never seen anything more beautiful than the Two Trees before him. Their mingled silver and gold sheen, the dew of liquid light falling steadily from their boughs into gleaming vats at their roots far below, the shining blossoms shooting out amongst perfectly green leaves: all of it was too lovely for words. He could stay here forever, sheltered by their holy branches, content to sit beneath them forever more and live off of Laurelin's fruit and Telperion's argent rain. There was peace here, of a kind he had never before known in the darkness of the Great Lands; the only thing he wanted more than to stay was to bring his people back here as quickly as he could so that they could share in it. He and his fellow ambassadors departed today, but he just _knew _he would return to Valinor very soon.


	46. Justice

46. Justice

_That chain._ Melkor had thought he would never see it again. The heavy iron device was the symbol of his defeat and consequent humbling. He had thought himself far above it now; he was a king, a ruler, a Dark Lord over meek subjects! But somehow, his kin had returned to Endor, once again to attempt to bring him low. How, though, had they succeeded?

It seemed that they never liked to bother with him until he was too close to total victory for their comfort, but when they did, to the injury of his pride, he began to realize that they always won. But this time there would be no hope of future freedom. His fellow Ainur had been deceived once before by him, and he was wise enough to know that it would not happen again.

As he was bound by Angainor for the second time, he wondered if he would ever again be free.


	47. The Nature of Evil

47. The Nature of Evil

Flames continued to leap up from the town below her, accompanied by the screams of the innocent, the clanging of weapon on weapon. From the location of her house high on the cliff above the haven's village, Elwing watched, horrified, as the only home she had known for most of her life disintegrated into ruins at the blood-stained hands of fellow Eldar. She clutched the Silmaril even more tightly to her chest; if there was one thing she knew, one last thing she could control, it was that these marauders would never obtain it. To reward them for their evil deeds with that which they sought so ardently after would be a great injustice.

More bloodcurdling screams resounded from the burning battleground below. EVIL. There was no other word for the atrocities these kinslayers now committed, but as she stood holding the Jewel close, Elwing wondered if this was truly their own doing. They attacked only because their oath necessitated that they reclaim the Silmarils, whatever the cost. They had warned and warned the refugees about a coming attack if it were not peacfully surrendered, and thanks to the haven-elves' pride they now reaped the consequences. A sick feeling settled in the pit of Elwing's as she realized how easily this could have been prevented-by her.

Some of the invading force now made their way up the steep hillside to Elwing's residence. A feeling of panic immediately set in, causing her to do and say things of which she was not fully conscious. Her awareness returned in a serene thought only seconds later as she found herself plummeting toward the waves of Belegaer.


	48. Language Lesson

48. Language Lesson

"I _swear_, Elrond! Do you _ever_ take your nose out of your book?" teased Elros, sneaking up behind and startling his reading brother.

Elrond looked up and rolled his eyes, turning his attention wordlessly back to his reading material, when the voice of their foster-father was heard as Maglor came down the stairs after hearing the beginnings of yet another fight. But that was not what had bothered him.

"Elros!" he exclaimed, "How many times do I have to tell you not to use that word?"

"Atar," the adolescent mocked, "how many times do I have to tell _you_ that 'swear' is not a bad word?"

Maglor sighed, hesitated, then replied quietly, "You have no idea how bad a word it is, child."


	49. A Simple Delight

49. A Simple Delight

Not many elves care for delving into the earth. Most consider it somewhat below them, whether they will admit that or not, and leave mining to the Naugrim whenever possible. When it is not possible, it seems to me that even Noldor do it begrudgingly, unable to take pleasure out of work not yet involving creativity.

I suppose, then, that my passion is yet another item to add to the list of ways I am unlike typical Eldar. Most Eldar grow out of the "digging-in-the-dirt" phase soon in childhood, but most Eldar were not educated by the Gonhirrim in the joy that can be found in something as simple and juvenile as a search for buried treasure.

A rather silly reason to break Turgon's orders and delve outside the boundaries of Gondolin, but one thing I have learned is that passion always clouds my judgment.


	50. First Word

50. First Word

"Níniel."

She had spoken! Túrin silently praised the Valar that this strange woman they had found possessed at least _some_ of her faculties. Speech was clearly great progress for her, after the constant weeping, the shaking of the head, the lack of clothing. If she had remained forever silent, there would have been no hope of him getting to know her, or, more importantly, to know why she clung to him so.

It made little sense to him that she had become so attached to him, he that was not even the first to find her. As he offered her something with which to dry her eyes, he found himself inexplicably hoping, more than he ever should have, that this first word, simply repeating after him, would lead to many, many more.


	51. On the Brink

51. On the Brink

I never thought I would find myself here: on the edge of a precipitous coastal cliff, watching the furious waves break upon its sharp surfaces as lightning flashes, splitting the sky, and rain pounds my frail body. I never thought, if I did find myself here, that I would be debating whether or not to jump.

At first, upon my arrival here, I pretended as if there was a debate, acted as though there were an option that would lead to less pain than that of death. But when one lies to himself, the truth is never a surprise.

I have lost everything that ever meant aught to me, lost it to the curse of Morgoth. Everyone I ever cared for is gone, gone beyond the reach of the miserable living; perhaps in death I may find them again. Never has a jump been easier to make.


	52. Learning

52. Learning

_"...not until the Sun passes and the Moon falls shall it be known of what substance [the Silmarils] were made."_

_-The Silmarillion_

* * *

><p>Fëanáro examined the translucent chunk of stone in his hand. Aulë's forge boasted of only the best of minerals. Young Curufinwë looked up at his father, who then bent down to his son's height, crouching beside the small boy. Curufinwë's eyes lighted on the rock in his father's hand; he cautiously reached out to touch it. The natural facets of the raw and unshaped stone glimmered even in the dimly lit forge, and he found it lovely.<p>

"Is it a real crystal, _Atar_?" he asked.

"Tap on it, and you'll see," his father replied with a smile.

The elfling gently knocked on the stone, and his contact made a soft ringing sound.

"That's how you can tell: If it rings, it's real," said Fëanáro.

"Do the Silmarils ring,_ Atar_?"

"No, Curvo; they are not made of crystal."

"What _are_ they made of, then?" inquired the young Noldo.

"That's for me to know," Fëanáro responded with a chuckle.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Crackers is not a geologist! The point of the ficlet is not good science, but father/son bonding. (Though good science generally does help... ;P)**


	53. Hatred

53. Hatred

Weeping, I pull my knees to my chest and place my hood over my face to hide my tears. They have rarely seen me cry before, so, though the odds that anyone will enter my tent are low, I find myself hiding. If they found me, they would not understand: they still think tears are for grief only, not anger. Anger: that unflagging fury residing in one's chest, directed toward another, yes, but mostly toward oneself.

I am such a fool to think Tyelkormo ever cared for me! If he loved me, how could he have left me like this? Leaving, but not only that, burning the ships that were his only way back to me. The answer is far too simple: he did not love me.

And I do not love him, not any longer. How could I? He is a traitor, leading me on and then abandoning me when I need him most.

I find the hot, angry tears streaming down my face because I cannot decide which I hate more: my feelings or his actions.


	54. Cold

54. Cold

When the small fire's last ember died, Nerdanel knew she should have gone to bed. Hours earlier, she ought to have gotten up from this now almost-warm spot and buried herself in the thick blankets of her bed in Indis's guest room in the hope that they could make her warm. Or if she could not warm herself with the blankets, hope to fall asleep and dream of those who used to make her life so warm.

But she cannot now get up; the fatigue that only comes from innumerable sleepless nights filled with worry and regret does not permit her to rise but forces her to stay, staring at the cold, dead ashes that had once been so alive, contemplating her cold, empty life that had once been so full.


	55. Hot

55. Hot

A bright flash of light close to Eöl's window jolted him from sleep, startling him for its proximity to his home. At first, he feared lightning had struck a tree in a typical summer thunderstorm, but there was no thunder following it, nor a drop of rain. Concerned, he leaped from bed, dressed, lit a lantern, and slipped out the front door of his dwelling to investigate.

The humid night was warm, and the air was completely still amongst Nan Elmoth's trees. Eöl thought to himself that it was perhaps only a flash of heat lightning as his search for he-knew-not-what seemed to prove fruitless. He made up his mind to go only as far as the next clearing before dismissing the event entirely.

Upon reaching the clearing, however, he was glad he had decided to come that far, for directly in the center of the break in trees was an enormous boulder that had never before been there. As best Eöl could tell by his lantern's slender beam and the light of the moon, the dead leaves and sparse grass surrounding it were burnt black. For a reason Eöl would never be able to remember, he tentatively stretched out a hand to touch it. He immediately withdrew it upon feeling the scorching heat of the boulder's surface. His hand was probably burned, but he was far too elated to mind the pain: He had felt iron!


	56. Snow

56. Snow

"What is it, Ata?" asks little Itarillë, pulling her violet cloak close about her and glancing nervously up at the white substance falling steadily from the dark sky onto the ice around them. She shivers, and Turukáno stoops to lift her onto his back.

"Snow, dearest one," he answers softly, "Have you not seen it before, atop Taniquetil?"

He does not see the confusion that clouds her visage at this response, but her mother does. The Vanya smiles to herself at her daughter's adorable naïveté.

"But, Ata," declares Itarille, "that snow did not bite like this."

_Had Helcaraxë ears, it would laugh._


	57. Any One of Us

57. Any One of Us

He did not know how it had begun. One moment his father was speaking with Olwë, the next a few of their people had attempted to commandeer the Telerin ships; somehow a single white arrow had whizzed toward the Noldor. Now it was full-fledged battle.

Carnistir's calloused hands dripped with the crimson blood of elves he had slain; a part of him wondered how their journey had come to this. He had embraced the idea of leaving Aman for the freedom to be found in the Hither Lands, but now, as his brother beckoned for him to board a ship and he kicked bleeding bodies out of the way to do so, a rueful thought regretted what he had done. It begged to know who it was that had drawn the first blood, so he could blame _someone_ for his actions and put the remorse off on being "forced" to join the battle. _It could have been any one of us_, he thought, but asked his brother, though half of him did not want to know.

"It was you, Carnistir," replied Ambarussa slowly, "Do you not remember charging ahead of all of us?"

Carnistir wanted to scream, to hurt something, to curse himself and his temper.

For a moment.

But the feeling passed, replaced by acceptance of and, yes, pride in what he had done.


	58. Friends Forever

58. Friends Forever

The pair sat alone, with their feet dangling in the cool water of the tree-shaded pond. The air was warmer than usual for this early in the spring, and the two children were resting while on one of their typical exploring trips, the first one of the year. They had relaxed in silence for several minutes, delighting in the feel of water on their toes, the bright sun on their faces, and each other's company.

The _elleth_ quietly studied her companion, taking in every detail of his features, of the way his loose hair fell over his eyes, of how he absentmindedly splashed the water with his feet, frightening the fish away.

"Do you know something, Tyelkormo?" She broke the silence with the seemingly random inquiry.

"What would that be, Írissë?" he replied with a smile, playfully kicking some water onto her feet. She giggled and splashed some back at him, grinning.

"I'm glad we're friends," she said.

"Me, too!" he answered, and splashed her again.


	59. Feuds

59. Feuds

This is how it ends, kinsmen. All of the feuds, the lies, the betrayals, culminated in one final, horrible act of treachery to my family: Finrod's death. Too long we have tolerated you, adorned ourselves with a façade of forgiveness and let your evil acts be forgotten, but no longer.

Feuds and dissension ever have lain between my family and yours since the youth of our fathers; always has my family submitted, feebly attempting to mend the rift between us by keeping the peace, but to no avail. Finally I am stepping out of the pattern left behind by my father and then my brother by expelling you from our kingdom. It took his death to give me the courage, the reason, the rage, to stand up against you, but now that I have, I will never regret it. Have I only added to the feud between our houses? Possibly, but a hard lesson I have learned is that to fight is better than to be trodden upon.


	60. Hierarchy

60. Hierarchy

Ai, to be schoolmaster to the children of King Finwë is difficult enough since the gap in their ages is far from small, but when it comes to practicing writing, the task becomes nigh impossible! Why is that, you ask? Because the first thing you teach a young child to write is his name. That may not sound so heinous a task, but when your pupils are princes, signing their name correctly, including their royal title, is something of rather great importance to them. You still do not believe me? Pray, consider the following conversation.

* * *

><p>"Master Elemmírë?" Young Nolofinwë held up his paper to me, showing his progress with the script.<p>

I read the line aloud, struggling to decipher the sloppy and blurred characters on the page before me. That was my mistake, for I found myself saying, "Nolofinwë Finwion, Crown Prince of the Noldor."

Suddenly, an indignant shout came from the other side of the room, where Prince Fëanáro had been quietly drawing, waiting for my attention after finishing his assignment. "_You_ are most certainly _not_ the Crown Prince! That title belongs to me, the eldest!"

Fëanáro proceeded to rise from his seat and make his way over to his brother's desk. I sighed; this would _not_ be fun to break up...


	61. Falling

**A/N: I haven't yet thanked my faithful readers, reviewers, subscribers, and favourite-ers! (if that's a word...) You are all such an encouragement to me! :D In token of my gratitude, I'm opening up for requests. I have 19 prompts left, and if there is a character, event, or scene you'd like to see a Yarn about, please tell me in a review! I'm always looking for inspiration! :D**

61. Falling

I am the only one. The thought strikes me as I guide Vingilot nearer and nearer to the monstrous Urulóki: the one that flies. The eagles can combat the smaller winged worms, but only I, I in my great sky-bound vessel, I with the sacred Jewel salvaged at last from its thieving master on my brow, am able to battle this great beast, the one they call Ancalagon.

And I strike the creature. Back and forth we fight, our blows causing the very firmament to tremble with their enormity, until at last I smite it, and from the sky it falls like lightning from the heavens. It lands on top of the massive towers of Thangorodrim and crushes them under its great caracasse's weight. They crumble to the ground, impacting the earth beneath with a crash that rocks its very foundations. Fallen, never to be rebuilt.


	62. I'm Flying

62. I'm Flying

Is this possible? To feel this way about someone, to want to be where he is always? To be drawn toward him like a moth to a flame where it is at last welcomed instead of smacked away like it has been before?

When I am with him, I am soaring, flying not like a moth but an eagle, one of Manwë's servants, on a mighty wind from the sea. When he says those words, "I love you, Míriel" I get chills down my spine; I never want to leave him. I do not know how I could live without him!

I want to laugh, I want to cry, I want to climb to the pinnacle of Taniquetil and scream it to the world. If I jumped off, I do not believe I would fall to the ground but float, flying with him forever and ever.


	63. Vanity

63. Vanity

_"'Vanity of vanities,' saith the Preacher, 'vanity of vanities; all is vanity.' What profit hath a man of all his labour, which he taketh under the sun?" Ecclesiastes 1:2-3_

Burning. Hotter than a glede, a flame, the Sun is the Jewel, at last in his possession, that scorches his hand; this is the last sensation he expected to feel upon regaining it: rejection.

The corrosive, unquenchable, unbearable fire that is the Silmaril in his left hand is all he ever wanted. Upon retaking it, he should feel victory, some sort of confirmation that all he had committed for the sake of these gems was worth it. He should feel compensated, not robbed, finally fulfilled not emptied of all that ever mattered.

What was the point of it all? His deeds were pointless, the Silmaril is useless, _his life is worthless._

To live or die, all is vain. Why not die?

_The flames pain him less than they should._


	64. The Image of Perfection

64. The Image of Perfection

"Come here, daughter." Thingol held out a hand to his raven-haired young child. The girl had entered the throne room in the midst of the King's most critical meeting, then turned around, abashed, to leave at once, but now her father beckoned her to come to him, and so she did. She ran as quickly as her light feet could carry her, grey eyes shining, perfectly-shaped lips formed into a fair smile, to the foot of the throne and scrambled up onto his lap.

He kissed her brow, saying, "How is my beautiful girl today?"

"I'm just perfect, *Ata!" She kissed him on the cheek and laid her head on his chest.

Running his fingers through her silky hair and studying her fair features, he murmured, mostly to himself, as he smiled down at her, "Indeed you are."


	65. Inner Beauty

65. Inner Beauty

He is so broken. I can barely see, through the scars, the creases and furrows, the dirt and dried blood, the handsome features of him that I once loved. Him that I love, I mean! For I love him, do I not?

Of course I do; I fell in love not with his strong, fair outward appearance but with the qualities and beauty that I saw within him. Of course I did! The outside was only extra, a bonus to complement what was inside. Am I not right? I _do_ love Gwindor, changed and battered though he is, because I have eyes for things beyond the physical, this outer shell we call the _hröa_. I still love Gwindor!

_But who is this beside him?_


	66. Point of View

66. Point of View

"We are _not_ their enemy!" he exclaims. "Do they not see that we are trying to save them? We ask that the Jewel be returned freely in order to avoid war, but they seem to think our request is a declaration of it" Maitimo is pacing across the room, looking quite exasperated. His eyes are bloodshot, and I have the sneaking suspicion the Oath has kept him awake for days. Why does he put himself through this?

Clearing my throat, I speak up. "Russandol, what is the use of this debate, this hesitation? What would make you think that, after we razed the kingdom of Doriath to ruined ashes, that they would suddenly view a demand from us as anything but a threat? They do not see how any action of ours could actually be intended to help them, so why even try?"

Maitimo stops walking, looks straight into my eyes with that haunted gaze he gets sometimes; it feels as though he sees both of our souls, and seeing them knows them to be damned.

"Pityo," he says, tone completely emotionless, "do you see yourself as a murderer?"

I have no answer for him, but I shake my head "no."

He smiles, a sad, grim, wry curling of the lips, and replies, "You are fortunate. Your perception is your reality."


	67. Failed Attempt

67. Failed Attempt

"So, thou Worm, is this how thou wouldst return? Scurrying back with a few faint scratches on thy hide from the puny arrows of pathetic elvish princes! Thou art naught but a useless piece of slag, not even fit to be housed in the fortress! What hast thou to say for thy unbecoming actions? Right now I can think of no reason not to smite and destroy this body which thou wert clearly unable to use and house thee in something far less pleasant as reward for thy cowardice! Speak, Worm, or I shall not tarry!"

The dark cloud always surrounding Glaurung's master seemed to grow with the volume of his voice with each sentence, until it loomed not only around him but above Glaurung, threatening to engulf the Urulóki and the spirit within him, forever smothering him. Glaurung wished that this was the first time he had known fear, but it was not. However, after experiencing the terror evoked by the wrath of Bauglir, he knew that nothing outside Angband would ever be able to cow him again.

"I apologize, my lord," he said with surprising confidence, "that I have failed thee. It shall not happen again; henceforth I fear thou alone."

**A/N: I don't often use the archaic "thees and thous," so if you've noticed grammatical inaccuracies, please tell me so I can improve my linguistic skills! :D**


	68. Oaths

68. Oaths

I have only been one place darker than the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth: Taniquetil at the darkening of Valinor so many long millennia ago. But the dungeons are far worse. Their musty scent of death and decay makes the consuming darkness even more oppressive, and it is cold, so very cold. Why do I find myself here? Oaths.

My own oath brought me here, but that of my kinsmen is why I remain. I ought to feel betrayed, abandoned by those to whom I showed such kindness, but I cannot find fault with them; their oath constrains them as mine does me. I do not regret swearing it, though I have always known it will be the death of me. Even if I did regret it, what could be done about it, anyhow? That is the thing about oaths: they are most unforgiving.


	69. From Afar

69. From Afar

Lúthien woke with a start, leaping out of bed, raven hair flying about her. She ran to the window of her tiny cottage amidst the boughs of Hírilorn. She peered down into the darkness that was the forest floor at night, keen eyes sweeping her line of vision for any sign of him. She _had_ heard him, she knew she had! Of course, she dreamed about him every night and always awakened with his honey-sweet _epessë_ for her in her ears: "Tinúviel, Tinúviel!" But tonight-tonight was different. She had _heard _him! But she had to conclude that it was just another dream.

She laid back down, and as the tears began to fall, she realized that he may not be here, but from afar he could still be calling to her. Maybe he was dreaming about her, too, tonight. He needed her: that was one thing she could tell from the sound of his voice, so she was going to find him, no matter how far from her he was.


	70. I Am Still Here

70. I Am Still Here

It was a crescent moon that night: the last night. Isil sent his argent rays glistening down upon the open porch's floor as I looked out into the darkness swathing the mountains of Mithrim. My vision was suddenly clouded by tears, which I loathe more than any other expression of emotion.

Hearing footsteps behind me, I blinked them back and whirled around. It was only him, and I motioned him to stand beside me. He cupped my face in his hands and looked me in the eyes, so that I was unable to hide my tears.

"Why do you weep?" he asked in a concerned tone. He knew I rarely did. He put his arms around me and pulled me close to him; I was glad he wore no armour yet.

"Because you are leaving me," I replied, placing my head on his shoulder and allowing him to stroke my hair.

"I must, Morwen. You of all people know it best," he answered softly.

"I do, beloved, but that does not make it easier," I said. I moved my face close to his, and he kissed me, for only a few seconds, but long enough to let me know he loved me. After the kiss, he caressed my face and said, "Await me with patience. I will return before our child is born."

_Months later, the child has not arrived, and_ I am still here, _waiting._


	71. Arrow

71. Arrow

"Like this, Túrin," said Beleg, positioning the mortal child's arrow correctly where he had nocked it upside-down.

"Oh," replied Túrin quietly, in embarrassment lowering his eyes to study the brown leaves lining the forest floor.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of, my friend. All of us must learn at one point or another, and all of us make mistakes: That is part of it," answered Beleg, smiling. "Now, take three fingers and pull back here below the arrow, like so." Túrin followed the instructions perfectly and was pleased to receive "Excellent!" as his teacher's response.

"All right, keep pulling, keep pulling, until the string goes taut. Good! Now make sure you have it lined up with the bull's-eye as best you can, and let go!"

Túrin released the bowstring and let fly the arrow. It whizzed through the air and stuck in the dead-center of the target, quivering.


	72. Lifeline

72. Lifeline

"Anything you ask of me, anything whatever, you may have. I owe you my life, son of Bregor, and am in your debt."

I am shocked to hear these words being spoken to me at all, even more so to hear them from the mouth of an elven king. What I did was nothing to be marvelled at; I would have done it for anyone opposing Morgoth. I am not the sort to let anyone, much less elves, die, knowing I could do something to save them: who is?

"My lord," I respond, "you owe me nothing. I did only what any supposed ally would have."

"There is no gift, then, that I can give you? No payment at all?" Finrod answers.

"No, lord. What reward can I beg for doing what I ought?"

"As you wish, son of Bregor, but you have saved my life, and now I give it to you. I swear friendship and aid in every need, whatever it may be, to you and your house forever."

His next act surprises more than anything he could ever say, for off of his finger he slips the ring bearing the badge of his house and holds it out to me. "This will be the token of my oath," he says.

What can I do but take it? I was his lifeline, now he is mine.


	73. Destruction

73. Destruction

Sifting through the ashes, the morning after, I cannot believe this is all that remains of the once-fair Havens. Like prowling wolves with flame in their wake came the Fëanorian marauders in the night. The burning, the screams, the horrors of the night before seem far away now, unreal; they would seem more distant, though, were it not for the blood-stained streets and the staring corpses littering them. Some of the bodies are already half-devoured by the carrion fowl that I never knew dwelt nigh the coast.

Why did I come here? I should have known we would be too late. I hate this destruction, and I hate even more the crimson hands of those that wrought it. Do they not know whose work they do? Here is yet another kingdom belonging to Morgoth.


	74. Hidden

74. Hidden

"Why hide them, Atar?" asked Makalaurë, "Do you really think that anywhere in Aman they would truly be unsafe?"

Fëanáro slipped the key to the iron vault in which he had placed the Silmarils into his pocket and placed a hand on the safe. He looked at it with an expression that frightened Makalaurë more than ever doubts as to Aman's security could: that of love. He and his brothers had always joked about their father "caring more for his jewels" than for them, but those jests grew less humourous by the day. It was not the fact that Fëanáro wanted to protect the Silmarils that bothered him; no, it was the fact that the Silmarils were all that he seemed to care about protecting. His father's next words served only to prove his fears.

"We have enemies now, Kano. We must take special precautions for that which is dearest to us."


	75. Handicapped

75. Handicapped

Now comes the choice. Here I kneel, beside my cousin's bond to the cliff. He begs for death; he sees no other choice but that twixt freedom in death and life in agony, bound to the precipice to suffer until the world ends. I draw my sword, prepared to alleviate his pain despite all that has been done, the sending of the Eagle, to save him. I raise my blade, begin to bring it down into his back, but, glancing at the cuff about his wrist, I stop. He does not have to die.

Without telling him what I am about to do, for the pride of his House would have him die rather than live handicapped, I bring the sword down onto his wrist.


	76. Harbour

76. Harbour

At long last, we dock Vingilot. How long since she was last at hatbour has it been? We have been sailing for far too long, in search of that which we began to suspect we would never find. The Silmaril had indeed brought us hope and direction, but it had done nothing to shorten our long voyage to Aman.

But finally we have arrived. The very air seems clearer, the sun brighter, on these immortal shores than those of broken, grey Beleriand, but I am filled with fear. We sought and sought after this land, but what if things- what if *I am unsuccessful? Alas, it is the risk I must take.

Vingilot is anchored at this Valinórean harbour, and my companions are now silent; it seems that the whole world has stopped, awaiting my next action. Taking a deep breath, I leap from the ship onto the white sand.


	77. Halfway

77. Halfway

I wonder if most people are possessed of these two conflicting sides: the half that urges them to do the "right thing" and the other part, that seeks only its own interest, which are constantly waging fierce battle against one another. I suppose that making "moral" decisions is not completely easy for everyone else all of the time, but I doubt that they are as evenly divided in the urges within as I am.

The "good" half tells me to stop, for even now, as we stand preparing to make our attack on the Havens, it is not too late to ignore the Oath's constrains and revel in the freedom accompanying a clear conscience, or so it says. But the other half, I name it not evil but rather truthful as it gains ground in my mind, warns me that this fanciful idea of freedom is no more than that: a fancy. It tells me, and I know it to be true, that whatever choice I make right now will regardless lead to insurmountable remorse.

What I need is balance: to make neither choice! And I will find it -or literally die in my attempt to- by meeting both halves halfway. I will go into battle and, indeed, try to fulfill the Oath's violent obligations, but I will not kill needlessly. Will my indecisiveness assuage the regret, though? I doubt it.


	78. Spies

78. Spies

Traitors, all along, spies of Morgoth from the day I foolishly made alliance with them; I might have known. The one time that I step out of my typical mistrust and suspicion of those outside my family and rely on strangers to fight for me, the one time I allow desperation to outweigh my biases, I am betrayed.

It should not surprise me. I do not pretend that I have ever been the lucky one in the family, the one upon whom Fate ever smiles and that all things go well for: Rather the opposite is true. Why should I have expected that my abandoning of what is such a part of me, the natural tendency to reject those less than myself, would have had better consequences than it did?

I do not know if I blame myself for the loss brought about by the treachery of Ulfang's house, but I do know that I rue the day that ever I took them into my service. But what could I have done differently? How could I have known? Alas! Only Caranthir, the middle child, the dark, the harsh, could have managed to recruit a horde of accursed spies.


	79. Flaunting

79. Flaunting

My uncle's feast is a busy, crowded, happening place. The lanterns hanging from the hall's cavernous ceiling are many and bright; the orchestra, perfectly tuned, plays a lively song, and the dancers twirl one another to its rhythm, synchronized, unified in their joy. But I have eyes for only one pair-that of Idril. Her golden hair flies out around her, her light feet and nimble body move to the music, she smiles. If only it were at me, and I had her in my arms, touching her like _he_ now does.

I hate him. Does he know how he flaunts her, my beautiful Idril, before me? Of course he does; I suppose it is all only to spite me. She hates me like I hate him. She probably does not even care for him, only loathes me, and will do anything to drive me mad with desire. She allows herself to be used to tantalize me, to spurn my love, to mock me, to slay my spirit, to torment me, _to see how long it takes for me to_ snap.

Oh, yes, I see it clearly now: They all know of my lust, and they find it amusing to toy with me. Almost I can hear their laughter now, echoing in my ears.

_Just you wait_, I want to tell them, _soon I will be the one with something to flaunt._

**A/N: This is completely written through Maeglin's eyes, so the truth value of it is left up to the reader, since I don't view or write Maeglin as the most mentally sound character. I hope that this piece conveyed that vibe on its own, though!**


	80. Cowardice?

80. Cowardice?

Approaching the dark gates that marked the doors of Hell, Fingolfin, dark hair and cloak to match streaming out behind him for his speed, bade Rochallor to stop at last. He dismounted, setting armour-shod feet on the pitted ground of the road leading to Angband; it was time to go on alone.

He turned to the horse, and, knowing it should have felt more strange to a Noldo like himself to do so, spoke to it saying, "I thank you, Rochallor. You have done your duty and more as my steed, and I now release you from my service. Go hence into the wild and seek there a life more fair than the death I look for. Farewell, my friend."

He let go of the reins he had used to guide the horse, though he had not a saddle, but Rochallor did not move. He urged the once more to leave, but the animal only nuzzled his shoulder, remaining fast where it was. Fingolfin smiled, the last time he ever would, and said, "No coward are you, Rochallor; the valour of the Noldor must have rubbed off on you, and I thank you for it."

Turning his back on the horse, he strode down the broad path leading to Angband's wide gates, thinking to test if Morgoth had the bravery of his horse. He doubted it.


	81. Far Fetched

81. Far-Fetched

_**The way Crackers' drabbles relate to the prompts she writes them for... ;P**_

"My lord, you have guests," says one of my door-wardens, a puzzled, worried expression resting on his countenance, "Shall I bring them in?"

My servant's apparent confusion has put me on edge, and I respond, perhaps more sharply than I intend to, with, "What would make you sound afraid of my seeing them? Who are they?"

The guard looks down at his feet and murmurs something that I can tell is half to himself. All I can understand of it is: "Good as dead, both of them...so far-fetched that he would return...and her, too..."

"Speak up, or speak not at all!" I raise my voice as hope, concern, and doubt grow within me. It could not be Lúthien, returning to us against all hope, but bringing with her her mortal knave of a lover against all fear. No wonder the doorman is so uneasy; he doubts that I will react well to this news. With good reason! The chance had been so slight that Beren would return when I gave him his impossible quest, and to my grief, my daughter's were equal to his after her departure.

I take a deep breath and speak again to the servant. "Bring them in. I am ready."


	82. Fickle

82. Fickle

Oh, my little sister, my changeful, moody, volatile little sister: Do you see where your fickleness has landed you? On this bed before us are you, pale, ill, gasping for breath, as your pride would have never wanted you to be. You are dying, Írissë.

And, why? Oh, I beg the question, _why_? Why did Eru make you so impulsive, so rash, so inconstant? Why are you never content? Here in Gondolin, you were not satisfied, so on a whim you fled to new adventures in the perilous lands without. Impatient, you wandered from our cousins' halls, farther and farther, until thither you returned not either. Ai, Írissë, you went with the wind it seems; even bound to your Dark Elf you would not become steady. And now you draw nigh to your death for your final -and single almost justifiable- act of unpredictability: your leap to save your son.

With one last rasping exhale your body becomes completely still, never to move or change again.


	83. Fight On

83. Fight On

What think they of it, this battle? This fight they have hopelessly begun will lead only to their defeat; one would think they would have learned that by now. Do I lament their ignorance, though? Hardly. The fools think there is hope of victory now, for I have not yet revealed all of my forces. It is best that way. If they are confident now, they will only fall the lower when this ends. And they will fall, no matter what sort of battle they put up against it. I do hope they continue their battle, though; the less willing to admit defeat they are, then the more amusement they provide.

So fight on, Children, though you can never win.

Fight on, for I have tools and weapons you cannot fathom.

Fight on, you fools_, while I laugh._


	84. Threads

84. Threads

How can I weave this scene? This scene that I wish I was unable to behold from afar, this scene, this event, this happening which refuses to depart from my mind's eye, is something no mother should have to watch, much less to depict.

How can I, with these useless threads, illustrate the death of my son? My Spirit of Fire, my joy, my truly great work of art, my very breath of life, is dead, and now I am expected to be capable of selecting colours and patterns? How can I even pick up the shuttle? **(1)** I certainly cannot make this scene beautiful. I only wish that my not weaving it could annul its happening.

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><p><strong>(1) For the weaving-illiterate (such as myself without research), Merriam Webster defines a shuttle as: "a device used in weaving for passing the thread of the [filling thread] between the [lengthwise thread]."<strong>


	85. Parley

85. Parley

_**"Parleley, parlelelellylelooo, par lee nee, partner, par...snip, parsley..."**_

_**["Parley?"]**_

_**"That's the one! Parley. Parley!"**_

_**-Captain Jack Sparrow**_

**^^Couldn't resist! ;P**

* * *

><p>We knew.<p>

We knew; indeed, we expected it, and we thought we would outwit and deceive him who is the Master of cunning and deception. We were fools.

We did not expect that Morgoth would stick to our terms of parley any more than we ourselves planned to. The very idea of discussing terms of parley with our sworn enemy was a jest to us; deep inside, though, we knew Morgoth would be the one laughing hardest in the end.

Why, then, did we do it? Even the cursed, the dispossessed, the doomed, can cling to a shard of hope.


	86. My Weapon's Name

86. My Weapon's Name

_Iron of death_: a fitting name for a sword, any sword, really, but especially this one. All swords' purpose is, of course, death; that is why we have them, for if we did not want to kill our enemies, then other tools would be used in our dealings with them. This sword, though, this sword seems to be shrouded in it, for wherever it is borne and whoever by, the one possessing it comes to grief because of it.

Is the sword to blame, though? Maybe the weapon is only as unfortunate as the one bearing it. One thing stands, though: He who forged it would have been so proud.


	87. On My Own

87. On My Own

Haleth knew it was because she was a woman. Why else would he offer her and her people "the protection of the Eldar"? She was a woman, so in his "chivalry" he had thought her too weak to lead and defend her father's people by herself. He had not _meant_ to insult her, but he had: by basically offering to rule her folk for her, take them into his realm and put them into his service, because the fact that she was female supposedly made her incapable.

Well, she had shown _him_! Declined his condescending offer, she had, for she could rule a people perfectly well on her own, thank you very much!


	88. Murderer

88. Murderer

There are only six. There are only six. Why did it take that question, that haunting, condemning inquiry, "Where is Ambarussa my brother?" to make me notice? One is missing, the youngest, and the answer to his twin's question is all too clear: He is dead. At my hands.

They will all think I planned it, that I knew of Telvo's intentions and killed him for his treachery. Had I known, truth be told, I very well might have, but not like this. I am not so darkened, so fell, so fey, to burn my own son alive, am I? _Am I?_

If I could, I would recall every flame that consumed those white vessels, stop the first spark from ever touching their fair wood, but I cannot. A tear finds its way down my cheek, for the first time since I know not when. Whatever my regrets, I am still a murderer.


	89. Mixed Feelings

89. Mixed Feelings

**For Tari Ciryatan, who asked for a Yarn about Aegnor and Andreth's tragic relationship. I do hope this meets your expectations! :)**

* * *

><p><em>Shock<em>. The world had stopped. He was dead, dead before she was; neither had ever fathomed it would end this way. It was always _her_ mortality, _her_ impending death, that had kept her from loving him as she could have.

_Regret_. From the way she should have loved him, the way they both wanted her to. How she wished she could have known, could have foreseen, could have actes upon her love without fear of shame.

_Relief_. What was _this_ emotion? It was the sighing of some hitherto-pressured corner of her soul at its heavy burden of feeling inadequate being lifted forever, or until the unmarring of Arda, at least.

_Hope_. The next time she saw him, they would be able to be together without the constraints of time impairing their love.


	90. Fountain

90. Fountain

**A/N: Okay, it's time for something lighthearted after two chapters in a row about death! I didn't even realize that until after I finished 89; hopefully it wasn't my subconscious that did it! ;P**

* * *

><p>"Come, Atar! Let's play!" Eärendil's smile was broad as his bright blue eyes lighted on the many-tiered fountain in the center of his grandfather's courtyard.<p>

He tugged on his father's hand and ran toward it, pulling Tuor along with him to its basin, into which he promptly leaped upon reaching. After completely immersing himself once, to the grin and head-shaking of his father, he motioned for Tuor to join him, saying, "Are you not coming in?"

"Eärendil, I-" He cast a glance toward Turgon's two guards that stood nearby, expressions of amusement on their faces.

"_Please?_" The child splashed a veritable geyser of the fountain's cool water playfully in Tuor's face.

Tuor laughed and hopped into the fountain alongside his son, creating a huge splash that made Eärendil giggle and proceed to jump on his back.

The guards smirked, but Tuor only sighed inwardly, thinking with a smile to himself, _The things we do for love..._**(1)**

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><p><strong>(1) I do not own the song by that name! :)<strong>


	91. Hunting

91. Hunting

So, that was him: the notorious black Hunter whose shadowy form and hated name evoked terror in the heart of every _quendë_ at Cuiviénen. He was the one to whom the disappearances were attributed: what other reason could there be behind the loss of so many of their people? That was the common opinion, at any rate, though Finwë had been skeptical of it. Until now.

There was no denying what he had just seen: an ebony-cloaked shadow astride an immense black steed; both mount and rider were as tall as the dark trees of this forest. An aura of evil was about it, and it left him frozen in fear. There was no doubt about it: That thing was hunting Quendi.


	92. Letters

92. Letters

"Fëanáro, love, what is this supposed to say?" Nerdanel studied the leaf of paper that her husband had just handed her, diligently trying to make sense of the pattern of characters written on it. The runes were like the _sarati_, in one sense, but in another they were wholly foreign and unintelligible. "What is this script you are using?" she added, puzzled.

"Those letters, my dearest," answered Fëanáro, even more pride than usual, though without spite, in his voice, "are called the _tengwar_ and happen to be my own invention, a project I have just finished today."

Nerdanel had to laugh. "What?" she teased, "Was Rúmil's alphabet below you?"

"No, no," Fëanáro replied with a smile, "The _sarati_ were good. The _tengwar_ are only better."


	93. Deadlines

93. Deadlines

Have I ever been one to wait? He who sits quietly, weighing the possibilities and truly considering whether or not to take action? Not until now.

The Balrog approaches; nearer and nearer it draws to the last company of Gondolin's refugees, and I need no clock to tell me that the time is now or never. Then why am I hesitating? I do not know; my people's lives are at stake, yet here I stand, frozen. I know what this will cost me, but it is a price I am honoured to pay. Neither this demon nor the deadline it has imposed upon my action need come no closer. I have made my choice, and I draw my sword, ready to kill.


	94. I Know You, But Where?

94. I Know You, But Where?

It is dark here, so dark. I do not know why, but I hate the darkness; I am so afraid. It is chasing me; I have to run. I run and run and run. I do not stop-I do not want to! It will take me if I do. It grows blacker and blacker around me, and water falls from above. I cannot go on; I fall, and I know nothing more.

When I next open my eyes, it is still dark and wet, but there are people around me now. There is a man, a tall man with dark hair, among them, and he covers me with a warm thing and takes me in his arms.

I cling to him, tightly grasping his strong arm, for I know him! He is one of the many things the darkness took from me, but I know him! I do not know how I know this, but I do. Though I do not know how I know him, or whither from, I know I do not want to lose him again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I do understand that Niënor at this point would not be rational enough to even follow a coherent thought, but I wanted to try her POV anyway. How did I do? :)**


	95. A Difficult Road

95. A Difficult Road

All he can do is put one foot in front of the other. He must keep walking, progressing forward away from doom into doom yet greater; he cannot stop for anything.

_Just keep moving._

When he lost her, the crushing ice swiftly covering her drowning body as she stepped onto what she had thought was solid ground, he could not even rest a moment to mourn her. He left her there, a now-frozen corpse beneath the ice, for what other option was there?

_Do not look back._

He bites his lip to keep the sobs inside, the pressure drawing blood that tastes as salty as his tears. A fleeting, morbid thought is surprised neither have frozen to his face, to leave physical scars matching the internal ones left by this difficult road.

_Hell never leaves one unscathed._


	96. First In Mind

96. First In Mind

You hate me. You always have, and now, as I finally reach out to take hold of you, to make you mine forever, the daggers in your probing gaze are no longer hidden. You have never seen me as anything more than your tainted cousin, the black mark on our proud family tree that you want nothing more than to blot out.

Little do you know that it was all for you. Amidst the torture, the agony, the fear, I thought of you; the only reason I betrayed this accursed city is you, because I want nothing more than to take you in my arms, to touch you and have you. Idril, you are as much at fault for Gondolin's fall as I am, but still you despise me.

_And as I fall, beloved, I think of you._


	97. Fellow Sufferer

97. Fellow Sufferer

It is the eyes; they are how we know, the sign that our already-diminutive company is about to shrink even more. It is a difficult thing to know that you have led those who knew only loyalty toward you to their deaths, to wait in quiet misery beside them for your own time to arrive.

The eyes have appeared four times now, and their presence, which is barely more than that of two faint gleams in the pitch-darkness of the dungeon, is inevitably followed by first, snarling, then, roaring, followed by screaming, next, a crunching, chewing sound, and after that: silence. Then they leave, vanishing into the shadows only to return in a vain attempt to slake their insatiable thirst for blood.

They are the eyes of a werewolf, as only Sauron would use, and now they are back. The morbidly predictable pattern of sounds can be heard, witness to the fact that the fifth of my fellow sufferers has met his end. It is only a matter of time ere the fell beast comes for me, too.


	98. Finally

98. Finally

They are here. Even as I embrace my brother in the heat of battle, I hear their trumpets in the east. Better late than never? The sons of Fëanor were supposed to have arrived days ago; to be honest, we feared treachery on their part.

But they have come at last, succouring us just when it is most critical. Finally, the rest of our forces have arrived. Finally, of defeating Morgoth there is again hope.


	99. The Flag of Surrender

99. The Flag of Surrender

All right, you win. You can have me, take me, gloat over and revile me. You are the conqueror, I your spoils of war. Go ahead, perform your victory dance, have a feast, _boast a little_. I give up.

Though it was but your son that smote me with what I know is my death-blow, this is still your triumph. I fought and fought, Lúthien, but, try as I might, it turns out that I could never overcome you. I was always fated to be haunted by you, by us, by what could have been, and one look at Dior's smirking face tells me I will never be rid of you, so why should I fight anymore?

Here it is; listen carefully, because I have never said it before and plan not on saying it ever again: I surrender.

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><p><strong>AN: I'd be lying if I told you this was completely uninfluenced by Ecthelion of the Fountain's amazing fic, "Sad But True." I really love her portrayal of Celegorm, and I highly recommend that you go read that story! :)**


	100. Beyond the Circles of the World

100. Beyond the Circles of the World

Dying is not to me a wholly foreign sensation. How many Men can say that? How many can claim to have known the throes of death before? Few recognize the sudden dimming of vision, the seemingly-slow transformation of it into pure, shining light, but I do.

My time has ended, not because of battle or wounds, but because I have simply lived my life. I wish I could say I am not afraid, but the knowledge that this time there will be no return from the Halls of Waiting, no miraculous rescue by my beloved Tinúviel, chills my heart with terror. What awaits me beyond the circles of the world?

As the light envelopes me, my fear subsides and is replaced by joy and hope as I die for the last time.

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><p><strong>I can't believe I was able to finish these before the end of 2011! I wouldn't have been able to do it without the support and encouragement of you, my faithful readers, reviewers, and toothpick-pokers (That means you, Skye! ;). Thank you all so much! :D<br>-Crackers**


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